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  November 2004
volume 2 number 4
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  Gregory T. Young
 
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Gregory T. Young
November 2004
   

 

bio


Madame Aperture

    Gregory T Young is originally from Salem MA, grew up in Cape Breton Island, in
Nova Scotia, and has lived in Los Angeles for about 13 years.
    Gregory can be contacted via email at samotarski@juno.com.

   

 

Sweet

† † I remembered spattered raindrops on a picture window pane on a gray day. I want to talk about a girl: a sweet girl. We met a few years before the ĎChanges,' before the end of the known world. We were both caught in a waiting game. We became friends.
† † My life was chiaroscuro. Iíve never lost the vanity of being aware of how the light portrayed me, even through the Changes. Strange times: time without leaders because everyone in the world had stopped following; time without invasive corporations because everyone began to mind their own business; time without crime because there were no laws to enforce, and time without romance because we had all, in our way, been exposed.
† † I appreciated the company of a woman who was beautiful, worldly, and articulate, but we were not lovers. I thought she was sweet, and sweet is tangible, and something about that quality turned me off. I would turn my face to my friends, just so, to make my point, and talk longingly of some lover I could take for granted, but I knew they were vain words. I needed someone who could arouse my curiosity and anger, someone who could allow me to throw caution to the wind. That is the way it has been with love with me. With her was all the semblance of what I claimed to want. I knew just what to expect. I saw it. Our friends saw it. She was genuinely attracted to me. But in spite of all of the persuasion and all the hints and all the invitations, I did not venture into her. I refused to be led.
† † I had left town for a while and I hadnít seen her. It had been raining like the day that I met her, but it had stopped in the evening, so I biked to the grocery store. I wandered over to the meat case. My fingers pressed the flesh of a rack of beef ribs, crinkling the cellophane.
I turned around and she was standing in the aisle less than two feet from me. It was disconcerting because she didnít seem to recognize me. I wasnít totally sure if it was her. She looked unnatural, or supernatural. It was as though someone had made a perfect likeness of her, staring there wide-eyed at nothing, as if merely presenting herself to be looked at. I didnít want to be rude, if it was her, but I didnít want to look like an idiot if it wasnít.
† † I turned my head beneath the fluorescent lights to an angle that brought out my features unmistakably, but when I glanced back in her direction, she had disappeared.
† † I left without buying anything. I was a little shaken up by the encounter. If it had been her then she was nothing like I knew her. There was something before her that I could not fathom. I was bemused, and more than a little intrigued by this new facet.
† † I unlocked my bike and turned to leave. She was back, standing right in my path. This time she was looking right at me, with an intense and unreadable look in her eyes. It was deliberate, but not desire.
† † Still not sure, I ventured, ďHi. Are you lost?Ē
† † ďYouíre sweet,Ē she said.
† † There was nothing behind her but pitch-black darkness.

copyright 2004 Gregory T. Young